


High (And Now I'm Fallin')

by agenthill



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [34]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Not a crack fic, Pre-Relationship, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-29 03:43:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12622412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/pseuds/agenthill
Summary: In poetry, Fareeha quite enjoys metaphors—in conversation, she often wishes people would cut to the chase, would not talk around their issues, but she will humor Angela, just this once, if only because Angela would usually shut down such questioning immediately, and even a roundabout conversation about Angela's thoughts and feelings is more than Fareeha has managed thusfar.Or,Fareeha and Angela smoke weed, learn to trust one another, and begin to fall in love.





	High (And Now I'm Fallin')

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gloriousdownfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloriousdownfall/gifts).



> this all started bc i was thinking about angelas (CANON) self-medicating! line & i made a tweet that was just like  
> angela, stoned: asks fareeha if she wants another joint in german  
> fareeha, also high: answers in german that she cant speak german
> 
> and then i was like. hey if i write this before nanowrimo i can have something to post in november to prove im not dead  
> so here i am. kinda dead bc im working on nano. and heres this.

Using the Raptora system requires a fairly decent lung capacity, in order to operate at high altitudes, which is why Fareeha quit smoking.  There are better ways to relieve stress, after all, safer ways, ways that do not impact her ability to do her job.  Smoking was her mother’s vice, in any case, and Fareeha is not her mother.

But sometimes, after a particularly difficult mission, damn if Fareeha does not want a smoke.

The mission which ended that day had been such a one, with far too many close calls for anyone’s comfort; yes, they are new to working together, have only been a team a few short months, but they are, all of them, ostensibly already trained for combat situations, and _ought_ to be more prepared than they are, ought not to come so close to death.  If Angela had not been there—it does not bear thinking of.

So, Fareeha _needs_ a smoke, even if she does not want one, feels the craving she thought long gone itching under her skin.  With Jesse off base, she assumes that the spot usually used for smoking will be empty, and no one will have to know about her little relapse—which is a good thing, because despite her knowing there is no shame in having an addiction, it _does_ embarrass her, knowing that she is not fully in control of herself, in control of her desires. That internal shame, the fear that others will think her weak, is more difficult to shake than anything else. It is a good thing, then, that no one must know, a good thing that no one will be out here, to see her at worst, her weakest.

But when have things ever gone Fareeha's way? Instead, when she steps out onto the balcony, she finds one Angela Ziegler there already.

Before she can make a hasty retreat, Angela is talking to her, using the chiding tone she generally reserves for her office, “You know, smoking is bad for your health.”

“I know,” says she, for what else _can_ Fareeha say to that. She _does_ know, but addiction is more complicated than knowing—and she almost says as much to Angela, is halfway through protesting, when she suddenly connects what she is smelling to Angela's presence out on the balcony, “I shouldn't but—you're smoking too!”

“Mine won't kill me,” says Angela, and then, waving the hand that is holding her joint in the air for emphasis, “And it's prescription, in any case.”

“So if I managed to claim smoking cigarettes was medically necessary, you'd let it slide?” Fareeha can already feel some of her tension dissipating, if only because the shock of stumbling across _Angela_ , of all people, getting high has distracted her.

“Most medicines kill you, sooner or later,” is the answer, and the tone of the conversation is instantly brought back down.

“Oh,” says Fareeha, lamely, unsure, truly, of how she _ought_ to reply to such a thing.

“Sorry,” Angela says, after a moment of silence has passed, proffering the joint, “Want to join me?”

Fareeha supposes it is better than a cigarette, will give her mouth something to do and save her the trouble of finding a new place to smoke, and so she accepts.

A few more moments pass in relative silence, before Fareeha feels the urge to speak again, to say _something_ to raise the mood; she can stand to brood by herself, but doing so in company always feels wrong, somehow.

“I wouldn't have pegged you for a stoner,” is what she decides to start with, because it _seems_ a neutral topic, and there is still something absurd to her about finding Angela Ziegler, world renowned medical prodigy, smoking a joint. Admittedly, they have not known each other very long, but Angela seems like the sort of person who would tend towards other vices.

“I'm not,” she insists, “Not usually. I'm just... self-medicating.”

That answer nearly has Fareeha laughing, and she refrains only because she is not _entirely_ certain whether or not it is a joke. Certainly, it seems enough like one, but Fareeha does not want to risk being wrong.

“Interesting word choice,” she says instead, “Usually when people use the phrase they mean something stronger.”

Before responding, Angela seems to consider her words for a moment, “It's important to consider side effects, when choosing the proper medication for a patient. Sometimes, they can be more important than the primary use of the drug itself.”

In poetry, Fareeha quite enjoys metaphors—in conversation, she often wishes people would cut to the chase, would not talk around their issues, but she will humor Angela, just this once, if only because Angela would usually shut down such questioning immediately, and even a roundabout conversation about Angela's thoughts and feelings is more than Fareeha has managed thusfar.

“And what side effect are you going for?  Not the dulled ambition, surely?”

“Why not?” Angela asks her, “What good has it done me, developing the technology I have?”

“That technology saved my life just today!  It saved all of us.”

“No,” says Angela, very firmly, “It didn’t.  If anything, it only condemned you to die again.  I haven’t _saved_ anyone, I’ve only condemned you to suffer longer.”

“ _Angela_ ,” Fareeha is not sure what emotion she stresses most, in the moment she says it, for she feels many things—feels like chastising Angela, for thinking of their endeavor such a way, feels angry on Angela’s own behalf, that she dismisses her own accomplishments so easily, and most of all feels _sad_ in that moment, overwhelmingly so, that Angela seems to think that living longer will only constitute suffering, and not happiness.  “That isn’t true.”

“Isn’t it?” Angela asks her, “I doubt you came out here to smoke because you feel _good_ about my having brought you back.”

“That isn’t—” Fareeha pauses, frustrated, sighs, and tries again more gently, “I’m not out here because you _brought me back_ , if anything I’m upset to have needed it in the first place.  It’s—I’m grateful for the second chance to prove myself, if anything.  Grateful that I didn’t die there, having failed.”

This time, Angela’s response is not nearly so quick.  Instead, she seems to study Fareeha for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly and head tilting.  She takes back the joint, inhales, holds her breath, and releases the smoke before speaking again, “I don’t know where you could’ve gotten the idea, but Overwatch doesn’t recruit _failures._ ”  Angela says failure almost like it is a dirty word, and perhaps, Fareeha thinks, to her it is.“You’ve more than proven yourself already, that’s why you’re here.”

“Is it?”  Angela sounds certain, but a part of Fareeha cannot believe her words to be true, and she cannot help the bitterness that colors her words, “I always thought my mother had more to do with it than anything.  Winston did contact _her_ communicator.”

“In all fairness,” says Angela, “I very much doubt he thought he would reach _her_ when he did so.”

 _Right._ Ana is dead, at least for everyone else, is not the same sort of ghost that haunts her.  Fareeha knows this, and she never truly forgets it—how could she—but it is still a shock to be reminded, sometimes, of the deception in which she is complicit every day.  Lying goes against Fareeha’s nature, particularly about something so important, and being forced to pretend, every day, that her mother is dead to people who cared about her has become one more thing to be bitter about, one more sore point with which Fareeha continues to be defined by her mother, even now that she is gone. 

But Fareeha cannot say any of this to Angela, cannot vent the frustration with her mother, the anger, that must seem misplaced, so she touches upon the closest issue she is able, “I worry that people see her, you know?  That when they, when _you_ , talk to me—it’s her you’re really talking to.”

 “I won’t say I’ve _never_ compared you,” Angela says, “But you’re certainly… different enough.”  She passes the joint back to Fareeha before continuing, “I could _never_ have had this conversation with your mother, for example.”

“No?”

Angela laughs, then, and Fareeha is surprised to note that this is the first time, in the months they have known each other, that she has heard Angela laugh, unrestrained. It is not a pretty sound, not melodic or gentle, but Fareeha finds it beautiful nonetheless, if only because of the trust it represents.

“No,” Angela answers, “She would tell me—would tell both of us—to stop feeling sorry for ourselves and get back to work.”

Fareeha almost says _That seems unhealthy_ , but she imagines that Angela knows that, and in any case, knowing what happened to her mother it clearly _is_ unsustainable, long term.  If she pointed such out, and Angela unknowingly were to remark that it worked for Ana, Fareeha is not sure what it is she would say to that, how she would react. 

(Because it did not work for Ana, could not have—Ana worked and she pushed away her problems and she quashed her moral qualms until she could do so no longer, until her identity was so tied to her ability to perform her duties that in order to be free of the pressure and guilt which consumed her every waking moment she had to die, to become someone else.  Fareeha does not want that future for either of them.)

So instead Fareeha says, “I suppose it’s a rather good thing I’m not her, then,” and Angela smiled in response.

“Yes,” says she, “I think it rather is.”

They lapse back into silence, then, and Angela produces a second joint from somewhere on her person, while Fareeha is left thinking of all the things she will do differently from her mother, of all the ways she _is_ different from her mother. 

(For so long, she wanted to be Ana, or like her, but now that she knows how that story ends, their similarities have become something to fear.  Now that she knows how that story ends, she hates even more that others see so much of her mother in her.  Ana’s future is not Fareeha’s, it will not, _can_ not be.)

It is strange to picture Ana, the woman—the mother—Fareeha looked up to dismissing a concern like the one Angela raised earlier, but, then, the more Fareeha learns about Ana the more her earlier perception of her mother changes. Now, knowing what Ana forced herself to do, to believe, in order to justify actions that ran counter to her personal morals, it almost makes sense; to have stopped and to have thought about the nature of the work they do for too long would have broken her mother, eventually did. In that context, it makes sense that Angela's thoughts on the matter would not have been tolerated, for they would have forced Ana to confront, or at least _consider_ , the reality of their situation.

Still, Fareeha does not like it. On the topic of her mother her thoughts are often confusing, conflicting, she is angry with Ana for having acted in such a way, for having put her in this position, for having been so great a figure that she created a legacy Fareeha fears she will never live up to; she is sad for her, pities the woman she was and was to become; and she looks up to her still, all at once, sees in her example the woman she herself could be.

Such is not enough to sour the conversation for Fareeha entirely, however, even if they are now fallen silent once again, for no matter what Angela thought and _thinks_ of Ana, it seems clear to her that Fareeha and her mother are not the same, and for the first time Fareeha gets the sense that Angela is beginning to trust her.

(A difficult thing. From what Fareeha has observed in her time in Overwatch so far, Angela is far more difficult to get close to than her sunny bedside manner might suggest—and straighter than Fareeha assumed, if Jesse is to be believed. But even beyond initial attraction, Fareeha has remained invested both because they are flying partners on missions, and it is good to be able to trust the person to whom you owe your safety, and because she never can back away from a challenge, no matter how great. Such an attitude is what has brought her here, to Overwatch.)

Normally, people trust Fareeha easily. Out of armor and off duty, she is careful to make herself as approachable as possible, is well aware of the way she might be perceived because of her size, her occupation, her race, and _usually_ , people do come around to her, are disarmed by her deliberately terrible puns, her showboating, her authenticity. Secretly, Fareeha is enjoying the challenge this time, and she is almost more motivated by the knowledge that Angela does not trust easily than anything else.

(Fareeha likes a challenge, likes to prove herself. The trait is both a good and bad thing, at once; it has driven her to try and overcome her mother's shadow within the same field, to try and win a name for herself in her own right where that is most difficult, but it has also been responsible for the greatest of her successes, for her finding a place in the Raptora program and, eventually, here, to this newest challenge.)

Probably, Fareeha thinks, she should say something to break the silence if she wants this to continue, should push further—she is impatient to advance, always and in all things, cannot stand to wait and bide her time. But what to say? She knows herself well enough to know that she is, by now, high, and she does not want to ruin all of her progress by misspeaking while under the influence. Even sober, she finds it difficult sometimes to say the right words to Angela, to get her meaning across; at first she thought, perhaps, it was a language barrier, but the more time goes on the more she has come to realize that Angela simply is not used to emotional intimacy, whether it be between friends or otherwise, and so something gets lost along the way.

So Fareeha does not speak. She sits, and she bides her time, and she tries to be patient, as best she can. It is not brooding, not like she would be if she were alone, is more of a companionable silence, their legs hanging off of the balcony next to one another and kicking idly, with nowhere to be at this moment and nothing more important that needs doing.

(Three years ago, Fareeha might have thought the latter part of that statement to be untrue, thought that there was _always_ something she needed to do, or else she was somehow falling behind her peers, was failing to live up to her potential in some way, was not the efficient soldier her mother was. But that is not true, and she knows it now. There is a time to be busy, and a time to rest. There is value in allowing herself to simply exist, and to try as best she can to decompress and to process what she has seen, and done, to whatever degree that is possible, in their line of work. This, she learned by her mother's example, if only because Ana has served as a warning.)

A sudden breeze off of the water hits them, and she shivers—more in surprise than as the result of cold—and Angela, usually so reticent to touch, except when it is necessary, usually so quick to duck out of hugs and close quarters, _Angela_ shifts closer to her, as if moving to warm her, and it is the gesture itself, more than anything, which does the job.

Then, of course, Angela ruins the moment, because nothing so fragile and tender can last for very long.  

In fairness to her, what she says would not _normally_ be a problem, because Fareeha picked up quite a bit of Swiss German in the years that Ana was stationed at Headquarters, but apparently Fareeha’s grasp on the language is conditional to sobriety, so when Angela turns to her and poses a question, Fareeha cannot make much sense of the jumble of words, besides feeling shock and mild surprise that—apparently—the word for joint in German is just _Joint,_ pronounced with a slight accent. 

Fareeha almost says that she expected something longer, or more Swiss, like “Jointlï,” but her mouth moves far faster than her brain, and before she can stop herself she finds herself saying, by rote, that she cannot speak German.

In response Angela blinks, twice, and squints at her for a moment before bursting into laughter for the second time that night.

“What?” Fareeha is slightly affronted, but mostly just confused by Angela’s reaction.

“You said that in German!”

“Oh,” says Fareeha, and then, thinking about it, realizes that she did, in fact, reply in the very language she was claiming to be unable to speak.  “Well that part is easy,” she claims in her own defense, “It’s only five words.”

“My question was also only five words,” Angela counters, “But I’m afraid you’ve answered it already.”

“Have I?”  Fareeha has no idea how she could have, not having understood the question.

“Oh, yes,” Angela tells her.  “I asked if you wanted another, but your tolerance is clearly not as high as I thought.” 

Somewhere in there is the opportunity to make a high pun, Fareeha knows it, but at the moment she cannot _quite_ manage it.  Perhaps Angela is right, and they should call it a night here and now, but Fareeha does not want to go just yet, does not want this little interlude to end, lest the newfound intimacy that accompanied the evening dies with it.

“Come on,” says Angela, pulling her to her feet, “We have weekly flight drills in the morning—a time slot _you_ chose, if I recall.  We can’t linger here all night.”

Oh!  _There_ it is. 

“Well then,” Fareeha says with a smirk, “I look forward to getting high with you again tomorrow morning.”

This time, Angela does not laugh, but when she is done shaking her head in disapproval she is smiling just a bit more than usual, and Fareeha thinks that while they have a long way to go, yet, she can see a future before them where they are both able to let their guard down, to trust and be trusted in return.

Perhaps this has not solved any of their problems, does not bring them closure after the end of the mission, or help them to understand what it is they could do differently moving forward, for both of their sakes, but it still feels like a start.  For now, that is more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway this is probably not what u expected from this fic and tbh its not what i expected either when i started writing but. thats life.
> 
> and yes of course the title is a 1d lyric
> 
> if u love me... leave a comment or w/e. but dont expect me to reply any time soon cause nano is taking over my life


End file.
